Gold, Guns, Girls
by ParamoreXO
Summary: They don't understand that this is the third time he's watched his girlfriend "die" right before his eyes. They don't understand that, this time, she might actually be dead.


**Title:** Gold, Guns, Girls

**Rating: **T (language and themes)

**Word Count:** 3,566

**Character Dynamics: **Artemis, Wally, Kaldur, Nightwing, Black Manta, Sportsmaster

**Summary: **They don't understand that this is the third time he's watched his girlfriend "die" right before his eyes. They don't understand that, this time, she might actually be dead.

* * *

**His hot, rasping threat vents through the slits in his mask,** tangling in the collective strands of hair that are haphazardly hanging in front of her ear. "Whoever finds you first, the League or your bastard of a partner, they'll recognize my handiwork."

With a sharp flick of the wrist, his firmly coiled fingers screw the javelin even tighter into her body. She's screaming in his face, struggling to spit out the most lewd of insults for all her pride is worth, but blood oozes past her lips instead. Gurgling on the taste of liquid copper, she can't tell if her whimpers of pain are brewing it stronger, or if the clenching of her teeth simply busted her bottom lip.

Consciousness is fleeing, or maybe she's glaring through a haze of tears, but his eyes have lost that raving mad luster, and all she see's is thunder grey. Slowly, the rage of color consumes her as it storms her vision. The gash in her stomach bleeds and burns, pooling into the watery moonlight as she becomes a stain on the darkest hour of war.

* * *

The pigment of her eyes is oily like sealskin, staring blankly through the openings in her mask. They're glazed over, nearly lifeless, as if she isn't seeing anything at all. Having swept her up bridal style on countless occasions before, the light strain that came with upholding Artemis's weight was practically committed to Wally's muscle memory. But as her wound paints his costume with even more red than is already sewn in, he can't help but feel as if she had gotten heavier.

It's like he's carrying dead weight.

"Stay with me, stay with me…" he urges, feeling as if the ventricles and atriums of his heart were about to give a sickening twist and snarl around each other. The way her head lolls against his shoulder, her neck not offering any support to prevent it from bobbing every time he slips up and loses traction with the sand, is scaring him shitless. He can feel his eyes burn with moisture behind the protection of his goggles, hear the way she's wheezing against his neck. She reeks of bloodshed. "Dammit, Artemis," he pleads in a low, brittle breath, "Stay with me!"

He's trying his best not to jar her wound, but in his frantic coastline scramble through the dark, rattling her is hard to refrain from. As sand sprays up behind him like white raging sea foam, his feet sink into the shifting sands on occasion, causing spurts of pain to explode from her. A rugged, heartbreaking mewl muffles against the stiff junction between his shoulder and neck. He can barely feel her lips floundering against the Kevlar of his costume, but she's there, brushing against him in the most desperate way possible.

But it wasn't supposed to be like this. Not with her bleeding out in his arms through a shredded stomach.

Peddling faster, pushing harder, he can see the flares of gunfire up ahead. Energy beams explode from dangerously aimed blasters, ripping through the heavy cloak of night in hopes to pounce on prey, evasive targets that sport blaring emblems on their chests. The collective battle cries, grunts of endurance, and shrieks of pain amplify as each footfall carries him closer. His eyes rake through the brawl as the Team, all members young and old, holds their own against Black Manta and his devoted recruits. His arms curl more securely around Artemis, bracing her against him as he readily runs into the blind face of combat.

The shrill of a blaster still sings in the air when he's hurtling towards Kaldur. The Atlantean is in the thick of it all, swiftly cutting Superboy down to a crumpled heap on the ground while Nightwing charges at him from behind, Eskrima sticks raised to deliver a brutal blow. As he halts to a stop between them, accidentally splashing sand all over Superboy's unconscious body, both men go still at the sight of him. Each is rigid as a board. There's blood all down his front, and the wound of the Tigress glistens like rubies in the moonlight.

To his credit, Nightwing manages to maintain their charade. He's charging at Kaldur and, although it seriously looks like he's aiming to maim, Wally knows better. Kaldur knocks him back with his water bearers in one deliberate motion, sheaths them, then faces the speedster with a gaze that holds enough anchorage to drown his own fleet out at sea.

"Save her."

Wally's not quite sure what gave those words a backbone, for desperation surely lacked a solid foundation, but they lodge from the depths of his restricting throat, broken like shards of glass that scrape up internal agony.

Atlantean cohorts linger around their leader, drifting towards the horrid sight of their admirable Tigress bleeding in the arms of the enemy.

"Raise the sub and retreat." His surrounding men bristle at the command. Some vague, scientific nook in Wally's mind registers the familiarity of his words, but also notes the foreign form of camaraderie that's associated with it. Then, Kaldur swiftly swipes Artemis from his arms, stealing away her weight and warmth and _soul_, and backtracks towards the sea for his imperceptibly surfacing vessel. His accomplices corral around him tightly, creating a mobile, polished shield of black armor. But Batgirl isn't about to let a few batarangs fly, nor is Blue Beetle on the verge of going trigger happy. Those left with a sense of consciousness finally lower their lassos, bo staffs, bloodied hands, flight enabled bodies, and sonic cannons, grateful for this respite in battle.

After the submersible ship is gurgled then swallowed by the sea and the salt, Wally's green apple gaze still fixates on the spot where the last bubbles broke the swaying surface. He lets the sound of the tide tumbling against the shore drown out the low moans of a few revived teammates. He wants it to wash away the blood, his nerves, his dangerous levels of anger, his sanity — but most of all, he wishes it could rinse off the words Artemis had mumbled as Kaldur took her in his inked arms, and wash away the rage it begets in him.

"_Daddy, please… stop…_"

* * *

To every passenger in the Bioship's surprise, Conner is the first to take a stab at the thick blanket of silence that's smothering them all.

"I don't get it, Wally." His cerulean gaze lingers on the window, hardly acknowledging the scenery as it streaks by. Eventually, he turns toward the quizzical speedster, frown lines digging into his face. "Why did you help Aqualad?"

Tension is crackling in the air. All eyes flicker towards Wally, wavering with worry. They think they know exactly why this whole ordeal would shake him up. They think that cradling a dying girl had brought back an onslaught of nightmarish memories, of the night Nightwing broke the news of Artemis's death.

In a sense, they were right. But what they don't understand is that this is the third time he's watched his girlfriend "die" right before his eyes. They don't understand that, this time, she might actually be dead.

He grinds his teeth. "That had nothing to do with Kaldur."

"Don't talk about him like he's still your—"

"I did that for _her_." He's out of his chair by now, body clenched in anger, eyes viciously striking a dare. The Team's newest members are stone still. Beside him, Nightwing stirs in his seat despite the restriction of his injuries, coughing up something that vaguely sounds like a warning. Then again, he could just be gagging on his own surprise. "I tried to _save_ her. That's what heroes do. No one else dies, got it?"

Conner opens his mouth to retaliate, but settles on scowling back instead, jaw set hard with frustration. He looks at M'gann, whose quaking hands have forfeited the Bioship to autopilot, and Wally suddenly realizes that she's trying to intervene.

Dropping the situation entirely, he plops back down in his seat, swiveling it until he's resting his elbows on the dashboard beside him with his face buried in his hands. He's not sure if he wants to shout at Conner or scream for Artemis, but when Conner's querulous "_got it_" settles into the air, the urge dies down a bit.

He decides to punch Dick in the shoulder instead.

* * *

Kaldur doesn't understand how she survived. He is thankful (_divine, almighty Neptune, she's __**alive**_)_, _but the nightmare Artemis has just lived through shouldn't be humanly possible to awaken from. Sportsmaster had deliberately aimed for her liver, a guaranteed kill shot. Yet, sleeping soundly on the medical cot with a network of wires and tubes and thread sticking through her, her vitals pumped with purpose.

The yawning doorframe is suddenly outlining Deathstroke's impressive build as he makes his way into the medical bay. "Black Manta requests your presence." Giving a fleeting glance towards his slumbering partner, the assassin expands on the order, "Conference room."

Even though the mask covers all but one eye, Kaldur can tell that he's troubled.

Giving the man a curt nod, he briefly expresses his thanks and exits the room with one last lingering look at Artemis. As he makes his way down the main corridor of the vessel to the opposite end, he grimly concludes that, out of all that has happened, one thing is clear: Sportsmaster had tried to make a martyr out of her.

* * *

Black Manta is seated on the opposite end of the conference table from Kaldur, rugged features set in a cool, collected expression. Leaning forward slightly, his folded hands pressing into a manila file on the tabletop, he ensnares his attention.

"It truly is a miracle that has saved your friend tonight." He does not smile in relief. Kindling humor nestles itself in his deep, hollow tone; parched for answers with the promise of catching fire.

The gills on Kaldur's neck quiver in perplexity. "Agreed. I do not understand how—"

"Neither do I, my son, but perhaps you can shed some light on the circumstances." Sliding the folder in Kaldur's direction, he carefully watches him as he takes hold of it, scrutinizing him. "You may open it."

As he rights the envelope, he immediately notices that it is unmarked. His webbed fingers are hesitant, slowly curling around the edge of the cover to lift it. His father, always a man to hear someone out, had never interrupted him before. Not in such a curt, imploring manner. Slightly unnerved by this, he opens the folder, fingers twitching with tension.

His eyes devour the contents with gradually dawning horror, and once his curiosity is satiated, he feels unbearably ill. "Father…" he attempts to speak, but words he cannot verbalize become swollen in his throat.

Black Manta rises from his chair and begins to round the table as his son loses his stature, knees buckling so that he sinks into a hard-backed chair. As the recently developed documents and photographs spread across the table, strewn from Kaldur's dazed release, he rests a hand on his shoulder to give him a firm squeeze.

"Tell me, Kaldur'ahm," he entreats, "Were you aware of this?"

After a moment's pause, he steels his father's gaze with his own and, for the first time in years, his response isn't a fabrication. "No. I was not."

* * *

Agony carves the wound from the inside out, constantly ripping through her stitches, lacerating the newly knitted scar tissue. There's a ringing in her ears from an alarm that's frantically trilling somewhere to her left, and an overwhelming scent of sterilizer that rises and ebbs at her nostrils. The filters of her mask that she had been so dependent on weren't there, but the weight of her glamour charm still circles her neck like a noose. Through the throbbing haze of her mind, relief finds its way. Her cover was still safe.

The telltale hiss of the sub's metallic doors sliding open greets her ears. Artemis tries to angle her face towards the entryway, but there's exhaustion in her bones. The screams of the intangible alarm sober up to rhythmic, steady bleeps. Heavily armored footfalls clatter across the room again until they stop right up against her bedside. There's a careful pressure on her right hip, downy soft like a feather, that immediately causes her breath to hitch in a pitiful whimper.

"Apologies," Kaldur's cool tone cuddles up in the shell of her ear, his level headedness offering her comfort in her fit of pain, "Your stitches have come undone. I do not wish to put you through anymore suffering, but this must be mended. You… You cannot afford to lose anymore blood, my friend."

_Transfusion, _she attempts to assure him offhandedly, but she hadn't expected her throat to seize. Her voice manages to rasp out something that vaguely sounds like "_Nnsssfsun._"

"That has already been performed," his voice floats up to her. In her peripheral from staring at the stark white ceiling that's glaring back at her with florescent lights, she can see the shock of blond hair that lines his scalp, bobbing and blending into her view. Suddenly, her midriff feels bare, and she's reminded of the times when she and Kaldur had fought side-by-side for a different cause. _No, _she reminds herself, _not a different cause. Just battles that weren't so deceiving. Hurtful._

Webbed hands don't feel nearly as odd as they look to the typical human being. _Colder. Softer. _But not strange. As he tries to be gentle with her skin, with her loose ends, she focuses on the way the flesh between his fingers drags against her ribs, and it shuts out some of the pain.

But pain, as Artemis has come to learn very intimately, is egocentric. Pain demands attention, demands to be felt. So when Kaldur sealed her severed flesh shut, she fisted the scarlet stained sheets and, despite her obvious attempts at restraint, shouted over the computerized record of her heart rate.

"_Shit, shit, shit, shit_,"she seethed, feeling as if her insides were knotting around each other, tightening and burning and _scalding _in ways she had never endured. Stars start to swim in her vision. Then again, that could've just been the crude lighting she had developed a particular dislike for. "Shit, _shit_."

He did not speak. He did not flinch. His eyes, filtered and green like recycled glass _Coke_ bottles, contained a battlefield of emotion. A grueling tug-of-war over what is right and what is best lashed in their intensity.

"_Holy shit_." Her words were rattled with wheezes. "How am I still _alive_?"

A quick _snip _and the metallic _clink _of the needle settling against a medical tray provides as her only answer. Her stitchery is stable again, thread lacing up her side in a wicked scribble, now angrier than before. The surrounding skin is a darker shade of red. Kaldur doesn't want to believe that this is his own design, that their mission has gone as far to brand itself on her body, but it is there, as wrathful and irritated and crosshatched as ever, and it's _etched into her flesh. _

In the end, the rope of his warring sentiments frayed, and both arguments fell apart. He turned and left the medical bay.

She doesn't get an answer until after two days of heavy dosages, rethreading, idle rest, and an unexpected case of sea sickness.

* * *

Gentle waves that lap against the wooden beams of Blüdhaven's pier suddenly morph into forceful thrusts. Once Kaldur's personal sub has emerged from the depths of the deserted harbor and is docked, its owner finds his way to the abandoned warehouse that has become the rendezvous spot for him, Nightwing, and Wally. He can't help but shiver upon reaching the wharf. The last time he had crossed that bridge, Artemis had accompanied him.

He is alone until he steps into the warehouse. It isn't hard to locate the two. Dick is repetitively spewing out a particular profanity, gloved fingers clutching the hair on top of his head as if trying to get a grip on the situation, pacing frantically across the cement. Wally, much to the Atlantean's surprise, is slouched against a stack of crates. He's watching Dick without a trace of interest, yet staring as if mesmerized. He had a lot on his mind, Kaldur imagined.

Too bad he had to add to that.

"Kaldur!" Wally exclaims, jumping up from his wooden perch. Nightwing's pacing immediately stops, and he whirls on the newly arrived.

"She is in recovery," He assures them both before they can even ask about Artemis's condition. Looking Wally directly in his tired eyes, he sees the instant relief there, and swears his heart nearly crushes with despair. "Although she has been fighting impressively to regain her strength, she has been placed out of commission for... well, I am not quite sure how long."

"Dammit!" Nightwing's fist splinters a nearby crate, and a frenzy of packing peanuts mob the floor. "This… Dammit! _Dammit_! This changes the entire game plan."

"Oh, so this is all a _game_?" Styrofoam snaps beneath the soles of Wally's shoes as he steps towards the younger hero. "You're not even remotely concerned that Artemis _just got stabbed_?"

"No, no, of course I'm concerned! I was terrified, Wally! I th-th-thought that s-she, I thought she w-w-was—"

"Enough, both of you." Kaldur intervenes. Nightwing only stuttered when the amount of pressure on him was nearly too much to uphold. "I realize that each of you are deeply disturbed by this, and rightly so, but lashing out at each other will not absolve anything."

The air becomes crisp with silence.

"She wasn't supposed to live," he continues in a softer voice. "The javelin had been aimed at her liver, breaking two ribs on impact, and permitting a dangerous amount of blood loss. Fortunately," he forces his gaze to connect with Wally's, "you were able to save her."

He remembers kneeling over her, feeling absolutely helpless because there was nothing he could do to stop the pain, the blood, the anguished screams. And she had been _begging_. "But all I did was carry her to you. She was _bleeding _all over me, Kaldur. She—"

"Artemis is with child, Wally. She's pregnant. And the child is yours."

His words crawl over his skin like an itch, but Wally can't scratch at it, won't acknowledge it. The night air is stiff with shock. He doesn't dare move.

He can't breathe.

"How… How is… She… _What_?!"

"Black Manta's medical team is trying to deduce how far along she is, but I assume she is—"

"Seven weeks, three days."

"Seven weeks and three days," Kaldur nods in confirmation. Fifty-two days ago, he had "_killed off_" a former teammate. Seven weeks and three days ago, Artemis had "_died_."

"So…" Nightwing speaks up while carding his fingers through his hair in exasperation, "because she's pregnant, her liver was moved around? And that's why Sportsmaster missed?"

"Correct."

"Oh my god!" Wally blurts out, "_She's fucking pregnant_."

"Also correct."

"_I'm a fucking father._"

"Wait," Dick interjects, not quite silencing Wally's disbelieving shouts. "She isn't showing yet. The displacement can't be by much. That must mean he only missed by an inch or two. Which begs the question..." he swallows hard and feels his words plummet into the churning pit in his stomach. He can't bear to ask it.

Thankfully, Kaldur knew him well enough. "Their child should be fine."

"_Holy shit_."

"Wally! Get a grip!"

"Get a grip? _Get a grip!_" he barks out a laugh, and Dick nearly grimaces at how bitter it tastes in the air. "My pregnant girlfriend — holy fuck, _my_ _pregnant girlfriend_ — is miles underwater in a submarine loaded with villains — one being _the most lethal assassin in the world_, currently being hospitalized due to an intended killshot, and I can't do a thing about it. _The situation is_ _kind of hard for me to grip right now_."

Beneath the domino mask, Dick's face tightens. "If we're going to get Artemis out of this situation, I need you to cooperate."

Wally's jaws unhinge to snap back, but Kaldur, exhausted of their senseless spats, beats him to the words. "I'm afraid that is where the main dilemma lies, my friends. Tigress is far too deep in cover to surface. Although my father does not suspect anything of her double identity, he harbors some distrust against her. He would not simply allow her to depart after all that he and Deathstroke have revealed to her. They see her as... a liability."

"We're bringing her back, Kaldur." Wally's voice is level with barefaced ferocity. "I have to bring her home."

He knew that, in the grand scheme of things, his words were unremarkable. If they were to maintain their cover, Artemis would have to stay put, and the rest would fight their battles while hers grew to be more personal.

But there's a fire in his eyes, raging and roaring with passion, and he'd like to see the big guys tame it.

He wants to see them _burn_.

"I will take care of her, Kid. I _will_ protect her." Before he leaves them to submerge back into the ocean, Kaldur settles a hand on his shoulder and tells him "_Congratulations_" in the most depressingly lamentable tone he's ever heard.

Wally doesn't feel much like celebrating. Not yet.


End file.
